


Hollywood Nights (or, I've Had the Time of My Life)

by GENERAL_KENOBI22



Category: New Girl (TV 2011)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Season 6 AU-ish, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Much like myself the loft just never got over Friday Night Lights, Roommate Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GENERAL_KENOBI22/pseuds/GENERAL_KENOBI22
Summary: "As you know," Schmidt begins, "Nicholas never truly had a functioning and supportive relationship with his father, so he found a surrogate father in head coach of the 2006 State Champion Dillon Panthers, Eric Taylor.""Again," Jess reiterates because it doesn't appear to be getting through to either of them, "I feel like it's important to establish that he is afictionalcharacter."(Or, in the aftermath of his breakup with Reagan, Nick falls back on familiar coping mechanisms—namely, embodying the persona ofFriday Night Lights'Coach Eric Taylor. Schmidt and Winston do their best to keep him from full-on Taylor-ing, while Jess does her best not to think about how weird things are between them.)
Relationships: Jessica Day & Winston Bishop & Nick Miller & Schmidt (New Girl), Jessica Day/Nick Miller
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Hollywood Nights (or, I've Had the Time of My Life)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was supposed to be a much longer work—fully encompassing Nick and Jess coming together in the Reagan aftermath—that eventually had to take a million back burners in 2020. That said, I would love to come back to it someday, but I was pleased with the incomplete bit I have presently. This is as much a love letter to _New Girl_ as it is to _Friday Night Lights_. 
> 
> (People still know that show, right?? Fingers crossed for the sake of my whole premise lol)

It all starts on a Thursday.

In the laundry closet, of all places.

"Oh, dear _God_."

Jess doesn't bother looking up from her folding (Schmidt is liable to express righteous indignation at least three times a day, so his freak-outs are basically old hat at this point—sort of like how she doesn't even bother hiding her bras and underpants when she does laundry anymore). But Winston seems just as upset.

"How...?" He sounds like someone out of _The Blair Witch Project_ (you know, from the two minutes she watched back in high school before declaring it too scary), terrified and voice wavering. "Why...?"

"Where did these even come from?" Schmidt asks in complete wonder. "I have a very distinct memory of us dousing them _and_ his Snuggie in gasoline and lighting them up like a kosher Fourth of Jew-ly."

"Schmidt," Winston demands, all business. "Tell me I ain't trippin', man. Tell me—"

"—that there's no way these...these _monstrosities_ were resurrected with some kind of highly suspect voodoo practice? Would that I could, Winston. Truly, would that I could, but I have no other explanation for what lays before us."

Curiosity finally gets to Jess. She glances over her shoulder at the other end of the folding table—the one that's holding both of their fearful gazes—only to be met with an innocuous pair of men's khaki shorts.

She can't help it. The laugh rips out of her involuntarily.

"Guys," she says in a voice she usually reserves for handling conflict resolution between her students, "is this because they're pleated?"

Schmidt spends no less than a minute scoffing in disbelief. " _Please_ , Jessica. I have literally _never_ said this before, but the pleats are not the biggest problem with these shorts."

The way he pronounces "shorts"—enunciating the 't' and elongating the 's' into an almost hiss—is particularly annoying. Jess fights the urge to ground her teeth when she follows up with, "Well, then someone fill me in because—"

"He's Coach Taylor-ing," Winston offers by way of explanation.

Schmidt hangs his head sadly. "And by the looks of it, he's nearly completed the first phase."

Jess feels a little like she's had a stroke. "I'm sorry," she says, "who?" She takes a moment to collect her thoughts before adding, through tentative laughter, "Oh, and quick follow up: _what?"_

"Nick," is all Winston says as he picks his basket up from the floor and resumes loading his laundry into the machine. "Whenever he hits a rough patch—and I mean a _really_ rough patch—he buries himself and his sadness into _being_ Coach Eric Taylor."

Jess' eyes narrow. "You mean like...the fictional character?"

"As you know," Schmidt begins, launching into Story Mode, "Nicholas never truly had a functioning and supportive relationship with his father—"

Winston looks wistful. "Pop-pop."

"—so he found a surrogate father in head coach of the 2006 State Champion Dillon Panthers, Eric Taylor."

"Again," she reiterates because it doesn't appear to be getting through to either of them, "I feel like it's important that we establish that he is a _fictional_ character."

Winston nods. "Doesn't matter to him. Listen, Jess, the only television show that has ever made Nick feel anything, ever, was critically acclaimed—"

"—yet tragically under-promoted by the absolute cretins at NBC," Schmidt chimes in.

Winston slams his eyes shut and puts his fist up against his mouth like he's suddenly battling an intense surge of emotions. It passes as he offers a choked up, "Word," to Schmidt before turning back to Jess as he continues with, "Yes, the only show that ever made Nick feel anything was the critically acclaimed and tragically under-promoted _Friday Night Lights_."

"Of course it made him feel things. That show made _all of us_ feel things!" Jess' voice cracks partway through, and she has to take a moment to gather herself. When she looks back up at the other two, her eyes shine with unshed tears and her voice wavers slightly. "It wasn't just about football. It was about being young men of character on _and_ off the field."

Winston cuts off a choked sob, but his lower lip trembles as he adds, "And Coach Taylor didn't expect his players to be better, they just had to _try_ to be better."

"Because character is in the trying," Schmidt clarifies, sniffing and wiping at his eyes covertly.

That does it. Jess wails as the other two succumb to their own overwhelming emotions, alternating between sobs and manly pats on the back. Nick picks that unfortunate moment to walk past on his way to the bathroom. He doubles back, a look of plain disgust plastered on his face (you know, the one he always gets where his eyebrows scrunch together and, against all laws of nature, his mouth forms a perfect, upside-down 'U').

"What is going on here?" he demands. His expression goes from disgust to horror. "Schmidt, are you _crying?"_

"No," Schmidt insists (looking everywhere but directly at Nick) even though he is very clearly crying. He sobers once his gaze finally does land on his friend, and his eyes widen like cartoon saucers. Winston notices and elbows him. Schmidt hits back, smacking him on the chest. From there, it descends into an incredibly juvenile volley of slaps and pushes until Nick finally throws his hands up in surrender.

"Y'know what? I take it back. I don't wanna know."

He leaves while they listen to him pad down the hallway. When the door to the bathroom clicks shut, Winston gives Schmidt a sucker push that nearly knocks him over. Gracelessly, he windmills his arms in an attempt to retain his upright position.

"Did you see what he was wearing?" Winston whispers, his eyes unmoving from where Nick was previously standing.

"Of course I did!" Schmidt hisses in response. "How did he get his hands on a blue windbreaker so quickly?"

Things only devolve from there.

* * *

It's Saturday morning before Jess sees the Transition™ in its entirety. Sees it in the _wild_.

She has plans to go to the farmer's market (not just _plans_ , but a whole itinerary that involves poster board, puffy paint, glitter, gel pens, and a flow chart that would knock the pants off...off a professional flow chart maker!), but just as she is about to get into her car, she realizes she forgets to bring her reusable grocery bags, so she has to come back into the loft.

It's supposed to be a quick bait and switch, the ol' switcheroo, if you will—she brings up the dry cleaning that's been in her car for the last two weeks with the intention of swapping it out for the bags—but it turns out they're not back in her room. So she has to make a trip to the front room, and that's when she sees him.

Nick's dressed in the pair of khaki shorts from the folding table the other day, plus the blue windbreaker, and he's added sneakers, old man tube socks, and a blue baseball cap. He even has a pair of—well, no other way to refer to them—Dad Sunglasses that are hanging around his neck by a piece of string and a small binder clip.

Her brain unhelpfully supplies, in a Tim Gunn voice, that the whole thing is _a lot of look._

And it is—it _definitely_ is—but she doesn't want to get any deeper into this thing ( _especially_ the part where the shorts show off his calves and that horrifying tattoo—the one with all of their faces on it) because things have been kind of...been off (or weird maybe?—yeah, definitely _weird_ ) between them ever since he got together with Reagan and traipsed off to New Orleans like there wasn't anything of importance waiting for him back in Los Angeles, and—

Whatever. It's messy. And weird. _Sooo_ weird. And ultimately, she doesn't have time to address any of it because she has to get to the farmer's market early, otherwise, she'll have to throat punch a bitch for coming between her and those sweet, sweet, sun-ripened, end of season tomatoes.

Again.

So she does the sensible and mature thing, which is to army crawl across the floor until she can reach the couch and grab her bags. But the whole thing backfires miserably when, without thinking, she sing-songs _"Vic-to-ry!"_ as soon as the bags are in her hand.

Obviously, Nick hears her. He turns from his pan of scrambled eggs and when his gaze finally settles on her, his eyes widen in complete disebelief. He looks like he wants to shout about the absurdity of it all, but he stops himself. Instead, he fixes her with a serious expression before nodding in acknowledgment.

"Jess," he says. He tips his cap at her like he's Mr. Knightly greeting her on a warm, spring day instead of one Nicholas Miller who is apparently sporting more than a few days' worth of beard growth. It's bordering on emotionally-stunted-mountain-man-with-so-much-love-to-give, which is _really_ doing it for—

Nope. No. She's pivoting...and she's pivoting...aaaaand she's good.

"Nick!" she says, hoping her brain figures out where this sentence is going because at the moment, she has absolutely no clue how to finish.

Heh, not that Jessica Day doesn't know how to finish—

 _No!_ Pivoting!

"What...what are you doing there?" she finally settles on, scrambling to stand upright. She smoothes out her dress and watches as he redirects his attention to the stove top.

"Just making a power breakfast," he responds, voice gravelly with sleep. This is probably the earliest he's ever been up since law school. He sniffs and flips his eggs. "Gotta be ready for circuit training."

Before she can stop herself, she hears herself ask, "Circuit training? Like with...physical exercise?"

He turns the burner off and moves the pan to one that's off. Then he turns to face her and shrugs. "Yeah, like—"

And then he does a single, sloppy jumping jack before dropping and doing a pushup. Well, _pushup_ is a strong word for what he actually does. What he _actually_ does looks like someone pushed a self-destruct button that makes the bones in his body ground to dust, while the rest of his skin deflates and sinks to the floor. She can't tell if she wants to laugh or cry, but it turns out she doesn't have to decide because she hears Winston whisper-yell her name from his room.

"Y'know, something like that," Nick finally says when he's standing again, definitely out of breath.

"Wow...that's—" she begins, but like the beautiful man of color that he is, Winston calls again, more audibly this time. "Oh, man. You know I'd love to stick around and hear more about"—She gestures vaguely at his whole person.—"all this, but Winston needs me, and..."

"Perfect," he interjects before turning back to his breakfast. "Tell the guys we leave in a hard fifteen." It's the first time she has ever wanted to kiss the patriarchy rather than tear it down, but then he clarifies with, "You, too."

Her departing laugh sounds equal parts forced and insane, like she's the female lead in a horror movie that has just realized Nick is going to kill her. It's not a moonwalk, but she definitely, probably exits toward Winston's room with a gallop/skip hybrid.

* * *

Once she's inside Winston's room, and the door shuts behind her, she slumps against it and covers her face in her hands. She feels the grip of someone else's hand on her shoulder and then hears Winston ask, "What's goin' on out there?"

Before she can respond, the door bursts open and nearly knocks her over as Schmidt barrels into the room.

He's all smiles as he hollers into the hallway. "That's a-a great idea, Nick! Really proud of you, man. Keep it up!" As soon as he shuts the door, his face immediately falls. "He should _not_ keep it up. It's a terrible idea," he confides to them bitterly. "We've got a real DEFCON One situation here. He's reached the final stage now and is full-on Taylor-ing."

Winston shakes his head. "DEFCON Five, you mean."

Schmidt looks appalled. "Absolutely not. I mean DEFCON One, the worst of all the DEFCONs."

"Yeah," Winston says slowly, like he's talking to someone incredibly stupid, "like I said, DEFCON Five."

"You imbecile!" Only, Schmidt pronounces it with the emphasis on _-cile._ "DEFCON Five is the peaceful DEFCON. The one for emergencies and national disasters and pleated khaki shorts situations, that's DEFCON One."

Winston frowns. "Then how come on TV, when the Army calls the President, or whatever, they're always like, 'We've reached DEFCON Five, sir!'?"

"Because, spoiler alert, Winston: television lies!" Schmidt taps his index and middle fingers on each hand together, forming a pound sigh. "Hashtag fake news!" he bellows.

Jess grabs both of their arms. They've definitely said 'DEFCON' so many times that her brain doesn't actually register it as a word anymore. Or, an acronym. Or, whatever.

"Guys," she whispers desperately, "he wants us to circuit train with him. He tried to show me a pushup, and it literally looked like someone rewound _Pinocchio_ at the exact moment he becomes a real boy. Just a pile of inanimate wooden bones collapsing to the ground."

Schmidt clutches at his chest (admittedly, it's the exact reaction she is going for) while Winston groans.

"Six years." He scrubs a hand over his face. "Six damn years and still nobody respects the 'Saturdays are for sleeping' rule."

Out of nowhere, Schmidt slaps him. Winston's still blinking in shock when Schmidt exclaims, "We have bigger problems than your circadian rhythm, Winston! Do you remember the last time Nick tried physical exercise?"

_("I'm doin' it, Schmidty," Nick declares triumphantly. "I'm running!"_

_Schmidt pauses, taken aback. He glances behind him, then back at Nick and falters. "Nick," he says carefully, "we haven't even—we're not even at the gym yet. You took the stairs, man. We're standing right outside our building."_

_Nick's eyes widen before he braces his hands on his knees, breathing heavy and uneven. "No!" he hollers at the sidewalk, voice choked up. "It's too damn hard, Schmidt! Man was never made to withstand this burden of the gods!")_

"He gets super poetic when he's in pain," Jess comments idly.

Silence falls over them as they each look at each other helplessly, unclear what their next move should be.

"Okay, loft," Nick bellows from the kitchen, his voice somewhat muffled behind the closed door, "we leave for circuit training at oh-seven thousand. Champions don't complain! Champions don't give up! Champions give two hundred percent! You're not a champion until you've earned it."

Schmidt is the first to recover. " _Oh-seven thousand?"_ he repeats in complete disbelief. "I don't know what's more concerning—the fact that he's reached the quoting stage of full-on Taylor-ing, or that he obviously has no idea how military time works."


End file.
